Yes We're a Band, What Are You?
by W.H. Woolhat
Summary: What would it be like if the Monkees had formed in Discworld? Well, for one, there would be a great deal more axes thrown at their performances. Follow Micky, Davy, Peter, and Mike through a day in the life of the Discworld's Monkees.
1. Chapter 1 - Davy's Day (In Which Davy Lo...

~*Author's Note*~

Okay, number one, this isn't really written in the classic Discworld style. I wish I could be that witty all the time, but I can't. Number two, this is in no way representative of the real history of the Monkees. It's not even representative of their personalities in some cases. It's just meant to be an overview of what the Monkees would be like if they existed on the Discworld. And, this being set in the Discworld, any song that any of the Monkees recorded or performed while they were still a quartet is fair game for mention, including Missing Links rarities. So that's that part…it's not representative of _anything_. 

Also, I don't mean to pick on Mike, or indeed any of the other Monkees. I also don't mean to pin smoking/drug use/stoned references on Micky. The story simply developed the way it developed. So, read & review, and, most importantly, enjoy!

Time-wise, this story takes place in the latter part of the Century of the Fruitbat, somewhere after _The Truth_.

"Ah, are dragons supposed to do that?" Davy asked from behind the smoking remains of the tea table.

"It seems to be a normal phenomenon among the more unstable ones," Lady Sybil replied, standing up and righting the table, then hunting around for the teapot, or at least what was left of it.

"Ah ha," Davy jotted this down on the small notepad he was carrying, "Why?"

Lady Sybil proceeded to explain about the digestive processes of the common swamp dragon, and Davy took down as much of it as he could. Suddenly, there was a muffled thud and some shouting outside. Sybil stopped her explanation and went to the door, only to find Vimes standing outside with a crossbow, glaring into the bushes. Davy tried to follow the gaze but couldn't find what Vimes was looking at.

"Sam, what are you doing?" Sybil asked, concerned.

Vimes lowered the crossbow and flicked the ashes off his cigar. "Nothing, dear," he replied slowly.

"You've got that look, Sam," Sybil persisted, walking over and trying to follow Vimes's gaze, as well, "You're up to something."

"Oh, just another Assassin," Vimes waved his hand as if to dismiss the problem. Sybil watched him for a moment, wondering what it was her husband had done to avoid getting killed this time. Davy wondered if he should pursue this as a story, but decided against it. There was a silent, husband/wife thing going on between Vimes and Sybil, and Davy figured he'd better not interrupt whatever it was.

"I'd better be going," he said after a minute, "Thank you for the tea."

"It was my pleasure," Sybil smiled like a true lady. Davy smiled in return and walked off, trying to get the soot out of his hair.

He entered the offices of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ ten minutes later to find complete pandemonium. Goodmountain was running around looking for more "T" tiles, Sacharissa was trying to usher the owner of the latest humorous vegetable out the door, William was fishing through a mountain of papers, and there were random flashes of light coming from Otto's cellar workshop.

"Davy!" William shouted when he caught sight of Davy, "Thank gods you're here! We need another story for today's edition, and we're two short for tomorrow's. Have you got anything?"

Davy held up his notepad. "I got a bit on dragon breeding from my tea with Lady Sybil," he reported.

"Good, good," William nodded, "Write it up, will you?"

"No problem." Davy cleared off the nearest table and sat down on an available crate. Things were usually hectic at the _Times_, but he enjoyed working there nonetheless. And since he was around nobles most of the time, finding a story wasn't particularly hard.

Davy hadn't been born a noble, nor had he been born a reporter. He had become both over the years, hanging around parties that his parents were invited to, getting noticed by the wives of lords, and learning more than he ever wanted to know from the conversations he ended up in. So now, although he had lived most of his life in a modest house on Short Street and now owned an upstairs flat on Treacle Mine Road, Davy was generally accepted by the city's elite as one of their own. It certainly kept his social calendar full.

"There," he said as he finished his article, "Can I get someone to proofread this?"

A dwarf came up and took the paper from Davy. After scanning it quickly, he nodded and scurried over to the press. Davy smiled. Things happened so fast at the paper that you really had to keep on your toes. He barely noticed the pace anymore; he had gotten used to it. In fact, he could almost predict the basic course of things. Next up would be…

"Good morning, Ron," William's greeting corresponded with the entrance of Foul Ole Ron and his sophisticated smell. Ron was accompanied by a small, ratty terrier on a string, as usual.

"Morning," Ron appeared to say, "Where's the papers?"

"They're coming off the press now," William replied, giving Ron a bit of a puzzled look. Ron walked around the press and waited patiently until the first stack of papers was done and handed to him. He was standing relatively close behind Davy, and suddenly Davy found himself thinking, "Give a treat to the little doggie." He patted his pocket and came up with a bit of biscuit from his tea with Lady Sybil. He tossed it to the dog, who caught it and chewed gratefully. Davy could have sworn he heard muttering, but that could have just been Ron.

"Come back when you run out," William instructed.

"Buggrit!" shouted Ron, then said, "Right, mister."

"I hope he doesn't take one to line his dog's bed again," William commented as Ron ambled out the door, led more by the dog than the other way around.

"So what if he does? It's just one," Sacharissa pointed out, "Good morning, Davy."

"Hello, Sacharissa," Davy replied, "So we're two stories short for tomorrow morning's edition?"

William nodded. "I'm working on one, but it's too busy here to have both Sacharissa and I out. I was hoping you could handle the other one."

"No problem. I've got plenty of appointments today; I'm sure I could get something out of one of them," Davy agreed just as a cheerful voice from his pocket said, "Bingley, bingley, beep!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black box.

"This is your eleven ay em reminder!" the imp inside exclaimed, "Luncheon with Lord Rust in one hour. Memo: get a new tie."

Davy flipped the device shut and put it back in his pocket. "Great, I hate wearing a tie."

William raised an eyebrow. "Lord Rust, eh? Isn't he a bit, er, a bit of a…"

"Bastard?" Goodmountain supplied. He had found the tiles he was looking for and was re-loading his tray.

William glanced at Sacharissa, who didn't seem to be paying attention. "Er, yes, one of those."

Davy laughed. "Yeah, kind of," he replied, "But still, I can live with it if I can get a story."

"Anything for a story," William grinned.

"Be ducking, please!" came a shout from Otto's workshop. Everyone instinctively dove for cover as there was a loud pop and the floorboards jumped. Otto emerged from the cellar amidst dense black smoke, carrying one of his iconographs.

"I am afraid I cannot do the color pictures for tomorrow's issue, Villiam," he said apologetically.

William peeked over the top of Davy's desk. "That's all right, Otto. Black and white will do for now."

"I vas so close!" Otto sighed, "But alas, the chemicals did not cooperate."

"That's an understatement," commented Goodmountain, looking at the soot-rimmed cellar entrance.

Davy hauled himself out from behind a table stacked with papers and stood up.

"Well, I'd better go see about that tie," he muttered, "I'll try to be back with a story before dark, William."

"Thanks," William said absently. Davy left the bustle of the newspaper office and walked out into the equally busy bustle of the street.

A tie, good grief! He'd have to go to High Street. At least he had an outfit all set for the gig that night, and it was suitable to wear to dinner with the Patrician, so he wouldn't have to rush to change. Davy figured that, if he was lucky, his schedule would work out perfectly and he wouldn't be late for anything. He might even end up with a bit of spare time.

Forty-five minutes and one hideously maroon new tie later, Davy was sitting in the middle of a room full of shadowy chairs, each containing one high-society person or another. Smoke curled out from the recesses of some, and a tall, thin butler kept offering people sandwiches with the crusts cut off and refills on their brandy.

"Cigar, David?" said the chair to Davy's right.

"Don't mind if I do," Davy took the proffered cigar and lit it, inhaling slowly and looking around. The only problem with an atmosphere like this was that you had to keep your head above water. It was too easy to sink into the haze of good food, aged drink, and fine cigars. If he did that every time he was somewhere with the upper classes, he'd be out of it all the time.

"The Fools were at it again yesterday," said a chair that sounded remarkably like Lord Selachii.

"Ugh, horrible," agreed another that sounded like Mr. Boggis.

"If I get hit with one more custard pie…" said a third chair. This one had an air of self-important sophistication that could only belong to Lord Rust.

"Oh Ronnie," Davy laughed, acting rather convincingly as though he'd had too much brandy, "When was the last time you even went past the Fool's Guild?"

Lord Rust seemed taken aback, but he rallied magnificently. "Why, just the other day, in fact! On business!"

"With the Assassins, no doubt," said a chair in the corner. There was a titter of nervous laugher. When Davy was sure that most of the occupants of the chairs were looking at Lord Rust and not at him, he eased his notebook out of his back pocket and took up his pen. It seemed probable that things were about to get interesting. However, the funny thing about a notebook was that, if anybody noticed it, it stopped most interesting proceedings in their tracks. Davy hadn't yet figured out if people didn't understand the power of the press, or if they understood it all too well.

"Probably to keep them away from our parties," the chair in the corner continued, "More brandy, James."

The butler complied with this request as Davy tried to see Lord Rust's face through the smoke and shadows. Was he angry? Annoyed? Or was that grimace really a grin? Davy quietly made a few notes as the others continued to talk about what they thought was wrong with the city. Usually, he didn't get involved. He didn't come to high-society parties to discuss things; he came to find out what things other people discussed, write them down, and somehow get a story out of them. Once he'd caught the Committee to Unelect the Patrician in a "secret" meeting and prevented what could possibly have been a disastrous overthrowing of the city's higher offices. Of course, when the story printed it had been credited as "anonymous"; Davy wasn't stupid.

"Oh, David," said the chair that sounded like Lord Selachii, "I'm curious about something."

Davy quickly sat on his notepad. "What's that?"

"What part of the Disc are you from, exactly? I can't place your accent." An arm emerged from the recesses of the chair and flicked the ashes off the end of its cigar.

Davy relaxed. "I grew up in Ankh-Morpork, but my mother is from the Hub and my father is part Ecksian."

"Ah, that explains it then," said the chair, seeming satisfied.

"Bingley, bingley, beep!"

Davy rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. "Yes?"

"One pee em reminder! Check in at the _Times_ in ten minutes!" exclaimed the imp. Davy shut the cover on it and shoved the Dis-Organizer back into his pocket. Hopefully no one had heard. However, when he looked up, Davy found that the chairs in the room had suddenly revealed their occupants, and nearly all of them were looking at him.

"Uh, haha," he laughed nervously, waving his glass, "More brandy, anyone?"

Thirty seconds later, he found himself being thrown out the back door. He landed in the middle of the courtyard, ripping his tie on the edge of one of the flagstones. After sitting up and rubbing his head for a moment, Davy got his bearings and headed back to the _Times_ office. He had a feeling that he wouldn't be getting any more invitations from Lord Rust anytime soon. Oh well, it never really was any fun, the people were boring, and the brandy wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

William practically pounced on Davy when he walked in the door.

"Did you get a story yet?" he demanded.

Davy shook his head. "No, I was too busy busting myself up in the courtyard."

"Oh," William blinked and seemed to see the dirt and the rips in Davy's shirt for the first time. He didn't say any more, but walked over to the press and watched several dwarfs running off more copies of that morning's issue, his foot tapping impatiently.

"Woof, woof, biscuit," Davy thought. He turned around to see Foul Ole Ron and his dog standing in the corner. Again he patted his pocket and this time came up with a bit of crust, which he tossed to the dog. Then he absently removed his tie and set it on the table he had cleared that morning. So much for Rust…where else could he look? His second tea wasn't for almost two hours, so he had plenty of time to walk around. Maybe there'd be some of the classic Ankh-Morpork street theatre. Suddenly, he remembered something and stuck his head down into Otto's workshop.

"Oh Otto?"

"Yes, vat is it?" Otto asked, looking up from his bench.

"You're not up to anything tonight, are you?" Davy realized that this was a bit of a ridiculous question to ask a vampire, but he figured it was worth a shot.

"No, I am not," Otto came over and stood at the foot of the ladder, "Vy do you ask?"

"I was just wondering if you'd bring a couple of your iconographs to the band's gig tonight. We could use the publicity. Only no dark light, okay?"

"If you say so, Davy," Otto grinned, a rare thing for him, "I shall get them ready by the evening, yes?"

"Gig starts at eight," Davy grinned as well, then left the office in pursuit of story material. Amazingly, the city was pretty quiet. There was the usual bustle of merchants and every unlucky entrepreneur trying to get his goods sold purely by shouting, but there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Even the Shades seemed relatively tame, but Davy didn't get close enough to find out for sure.

"What a day. I need a story and the city decides to be normal for once," he shook his head. Suddenly, there was a shout from the docks. Thinking it might possibly be a break in the monotony, Davy followed the sounds of argument down to the river.

Two boat captains seemed to be having a squabble, which Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs of the Watch seemed reluctant to break up. They were sharing a dog-end and watching, occasionally commenting to each other, apparently trying to decide whether or not to write the argument off as street theatre. Davy pushed through the crowd that had gathered and pulled out his notepad.

"What's going on here?" he asked the nearest person.

"That Klatchian merchant insulted Benning!" the observer replied.

"Uh huh, I see," Davy jotted the name down, "Why?"

"Does it matter? He's _Klatchian_!" the man exclaimed.

"Ah, one of those fights," Davy said, although he was thinking, _Ah, one of those people_. Given the fact that most of the city's population thought roughly along the same lines, Davy decided to get closer and listen to what the fight was actually about. Even if it was totally irrational, it might amount to something.

"Son of pigs!" the Klatchian was shouting. Davy wished someone had caught the man's name.

"Desert rat!" Benning retorted.

"Purveyor of filth!"

"Murderous thief!" Benning punctuated this statement by shoving the Klatchian. The Klatchian retaliated, and soon the two were shoving each other violently. Apparently neither of them had weapons on them other than their hands. Davy was trying to jot down their various movements without missing anything, and the crowd behind him was closing in quickly. One thing that could be said for the citizens of Ankh-Morpork was that they loved a good fight.

Davy suddenly became aware of the fact that the people behind him were jostling each other for prime position. The person directly in back of him pushed forward, knocking Davy several feet to the right and into the midst of the captains' fight.

"Out of the way!" shrieked Benning, directing his next shove at Davy. Davy tried to dodge, but things were happening too fast. He felt Benning rocket into him, and then he flew off the pier and into the river Ankh. He landed with a rather wet squelching noise accompanied by a group gasp from the spectators. Grumbling, he stood up and brushed the weeds from his pants before sprinting to shore. It was that time of year, when the Ankh was just wet enough to suck at the bottoms of boots and allow small canoes and other things to slog along the surface. 

By the time Davy got to shore, the crowd had dispersed. He looked in dismay at his ruined outfit, then grumbled to himself and set off for Treacle Mine Road.

"I should just do an article on the gig," he muttered once he was home. He rooted around in his closet, trying to find something suitable to wear to tea with Lady Margolotta. What did you wear to tea with a vampire, or did it even matter? Then there was dinner with the Patrician. Davy figured he'd kill time at the newspaper office until that rolled around. 

And, of course, there was the gig. What a way to end the day! As long as there weren't any drunken dwarfs, it ought to be a good show. The only problem with being in the forefront in Ankh-Morpork was that it not only got you adoring fans, but also put you in the best position to be an axe target. But Davy didn't mind. He enjoyed the gigs, and looked forward to them more than he ever looked forward to tea or a meal with any lord or lady. Mike sometimes got annoyed because he thought Davy didn't take the gigs as seriously as he should, but the way Davy saw it was if people liked it and the band came out of it unscathed, it was a good performance. Even if they made a few mistakes or left out a verse, what did it matter? It was still a lot of fun.

Amazingly, tea was uneventful. Lady Margolotta wasn't a typical vampire, and, despite the rather batty décor of her house, she tended to come across as more of a witty, intelligent person than a creature of the night. However, Davy hadn't been able to get a story from her, either. It was looking more and more like he'd have to do a story about the gig and try his best not to promote the band too much. Although William never actually said that the _Times_ reporters shouldn't be biased, it seemed to be an unwritten rule of the press. But, if Otto was taking pictures anyway…ah well, Davy figured he'd just have to wait and see what dinner with the Patrician brought up.

He entered the _Times_ office just as Foul Ole Ron was coming out with another bundle of papers. This time Davy gave the dog a critical look as it went past, and couldn't help but find himself thinking, "Woof, whine, got a treat mister?" Once again, his hand went to his pocket and he was able to find a tidbit of food leftover from tea. This he gave to the dog before going inside.

Once there, he removed his second new tie of the day, laid it beside the first one, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Then he sat back and flipped through his notepad. There were the notes on Sybil's dragons, a couple snatches of conversation from lunch, a rather muddy and damp description of the captains' fight on the pier, and a small sketch of Lady Margolotta's sofa. A perfect hodgepodge of absolutely nothing.

"No luck, huh?" Sacharissa asked, looking over Davy's shoulder.

Davy shook his head. "Not yet."

"I'm sure you'll get something. This city has no shortage of things to write about," Sacharissa smiled and picked up a stack of papers, which she handed to Goodmountain. The dwarfs had been around the press constantly, putting out copy after copy of that day's issue. Occasionally one of them would stop to grab a can of oil or restock paper, but other than that they were all setting type, inking pages, and stacking finished copies. Davy liked working with dwarfs. They were focused, determined, and usually pretty good guys, except when they got drunk. Overall, though, Davy got on quite well with the dwarfs at the _Times_.

Bored with watching the bustle go on around him, Davy got up and walked over to William's desk.

"Is there anything I could do to help?" he inquired.

William looked up from his notes. "I think Otto needs more chemicals and another salamander, but you'd have to ask him."

"He just left a second ago," reported a passing dwarf, "Muttering about color ink and promotional photos. He's batty, if you ask me."

"That was tasteless," Davy chided. The dwarf shrugged.

"I guess you haven't had any luck with a story," William said after a minute.

"Nope, nothing. You'd think that the Alchemists would at least have the decency to blow up their Guild building again or something," Davy sighed.

"Well, keep looking. There's always a story lurking somewhere in the city. You've just got to find it is all."

Dinnertime came, and it was with apprehension that Davy approached the Patrician's palace. He felt comfortable with every noble in the city, so why did he always get so anxious around Lord Vetinari? It had something to do with the quiet way the man always looked at you, no matter what you were telling him. You could inform the Patrician that a herd of wildly trumpeting pink elephants was attacking the city and he'd probably just look at you calmly and say, "Really, is that so?"

Davy was ushered in by the Patrician's clerk, Drumknott. Vetinari himself met Davy outside the palace's elaborate dining hall, although Davy had the sneaking suspicion that the Patrician didn't use the hall unless he was having company. The vaulted ceiling was so high that the very top was lost in shadow. The walls were lined with ornate holders that had probably contained torches at one time, but now had lamps hanging from them. The light danced on the walls and gave the whole place a rather unsettling atmosphere. After being in it for a while, you started to expect things to jump out of the corners and perform exotic dances in loincloths.

"Sit down, sit down," the Patrician waved Davy into a chair as he sat down himself, "I trust things are going smoothly at the _Times_?"

Davy didn't bother to ask how Vetinari knew he worked for the paper. Vetinari always knew things about people, sometimes things they didn't know about themselves.

"Yes sir."

"And how is young William de Worde getting on these days?" Vetinari leaned back. Davy hated it when the man seemed at ease. It was hard to read his expression.

"He's overworked, like the rest of us."

"Ah, yes, the city will do that to you if you try to keep up with it," Vetinari half-smiled as if he was reflecting on something. Davy laughed nervously. Fortunately the meal was brought in at that point and both he and the Patrician were silent for a few moments as they ate. Davy noticed that the Patrician didn't eat much, and it made him feel a bit self-conscious as he ate a rather large portion of roast duck and potatoes. Technically, he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He hadn't been at Lord Rust's long enough to get much more down than a few sips of brandy, and at both teas he'd only had a biscuit. 

The Patrician watched Davy calmly for a moment over the tops of his fingers.

"And what of your friends?" he asked suddenly.

Davy was caught off-guard and nearly choked on a piece of potato. "Pardon?"

"Your friends, the band. How are they getting on?"

"Oh, you know," Davy coughed and had to take a sip of wine before continuing, "The usual. Long days, gigs, that sort of thing."

"Mmhmm," Vetinari nodded, "You dropped this when you came in, by the way." He reached under his chair and produced something round and nondescript. It appeared to have some sort of bells around the edge.

Davy hurriedly looked in the bag he'd had to bring along because of his cramped schedule. Sure enough, his tambourine was not among the assorted percussive instruments he carried to every gig. He took the round object rather sheepishly.

"Thanks," he sighed as he put it in the bag between two pairs of maracas, "You know, this just doesn't seem to be my day."

"What makes you say that?" Vetinari asked with mild interest. Dessert was being brought in.

"Well," Davy hesitated, then plunged on, "That dragon exploded in Lady Sybil's dragon house while we were having tea, I got thrown out of Lord Rust's lunch party because I work for the newspaper, then I got pushed into the river by an angry boat captain, William's been constantly hounding me for a story, and there's this stupid little dog that somehow keeps managing to get me to feed it every time it gets near me."

Vetinari blinked. "I see," he managed.

"Sometimes I don't even know why I hang around with the people I hang around with," Davy sighed, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his face. Part of his brain was quite aware of the fact that Vetinari had absolutely no interest in his problems, but that wasn't the part controlling his actions at the moment. He hadn't even really had that bad of a day, comparatively speaking, it was just that the pressure of working at the paper sometimes got to him.

Vetinari took a forkful of pastry and chewed thoughtfully.

"I can see where you might start to question your relations, yes," he said after a minute.

"I know it's really none of my business to be – you can?" Davy stopped when the Patrician's words hit his brain and headed his initial statement off at the pass.

"Indeed. You forget that I deal with these people myself. Incidentally, I do not get on well with everybody I know," Vetinari permitted himself a grin. Somehow, that made Davy feel at ease. He and Vetinari had a rather relaxed chat after that, and Davy was grinning broadly when he got up to leave. The prospect of the gig was beginning to lift his spirits, as well.

"Thank you for dinner, your lordship," he said to Vetinari. Funny thing was that, although Davy called every other lord and lady in the city by their first names, he could never quite get the courage to call the Patrician "Havelock".

"My pleasure. By the way, when is your next performance?" Vetinari eased himself out of his chair and leaned on his walking stick with an expression of mild interest.

****

"Tonight," Davy replied, checking his watch, "At eight. And I've got to get going. Thanks again." With that, he gathered up his bag and was out the door. The Patrician watched his retreating back for a moment, then smiled to himself and went down the hall in the opposite direction.


	2. Chapter 2 - Mike's Day (In Which Mike Ha...

With a soft click the crossbow was cocked, then rested on a low wall. All that was left to do now was wait. The target would be in range soon enough.

Mike sighted down the length of the crossbow and began to go over his plan in his head. His target was in the dragon house right now, but he would come out in about five minutes and most likely pause at the bear trap in the bushes, which Mike knew for a fact had been tripped two days before and had not been re-set. A job like this took a lot of planning and, most importantly, careful observation. One wrong move on this property and he would be toast. Possibly scrambled eggs and bacon as well.

Settling back, Mike blew out a breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. What a day to be wearing black. The sun beat down and, even though he had some shade from the low wall he was sitting behind, Mike was still getting rather warm. He only hoped he wouldn't fall asleep or pass out before his target came into sight. He unbuttoned his cloak and laid it on the ground like a blanket, kneeling on it and leaning forward when he thought he heard voices coming from the direction of the dragon house. Sighting down the length of the crossbow again, Mike put his finger on the trigger and tensed himself…

"Mike, what are you doing?"

"Gah!" Mike started and knocked his crossbow off the low wall and onto the ground. Fortunately it didn't go off, because another man, tall and skinny with blonde hair and a City Watch uniform, was standing behind him.

"Oh, Peter, it's you," Mike took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart, "Don't _do_ that to me! This thing" – here he picked up the crossbow and waved it around for emphasis – "is a Burleigh and Stronginthearm, and it don't respond well to startled people. Mostly, it shoots them."

"Sorry," Peter apologized, "You're not really going to…do anything, are you?"

Mike sighed and rolled his eyes, propping the crossbow on the wall again. "Peter, I'm an Assassin on a job," he explained patiently, "And just what do you think that means?"

Peter crouched on the ground next to Mike and looked out at the dragon house. "I know what it means," he replied, "It's just that…well, I'm not about to let an Assassin kill a watchman, now am I? He is my boss, after all."

"And, if I'm recallin' correctly, it was a watchman who killed the last head of the Assassin's Guild," Mike shot back irritably.

"Only because he was a direct threat," Peter said calmly, "Now come on, Mike, why are you even bothering? You _know_ how many people have tried to assassinate Mr. Vimes, and I'm sure you know what happened to them after they failed."

Mike didn't reply. With his gaze set on the doors of the dragon house, he was keenly aware of what he was up against. According to the stories, most of which circulated by word of mouth around the Assassin's Guild, the last man who had failed to kill Sir Samuel Vimes was still looking for his teeth. The Assassin before that was, apparently, the main component of C.M.O.T. Dibber's sausages for at least a month. As for the others…Mike shook his head. He wasn't going to be the next one to fail. But what with Peter, a watchman, crouching right next to him, it was hard to concentrate.

"Hey, what're you guys up to?" At the sound of the voice, Mike started again, almost setting off the crossbow. He looked up to find another man standing over him, or at least attempting to stand over him. In reality, the other man was only a few inches taller than Mike's crouched form.

"Davy!" Mike hissed, "Get down! And what are _you_ doin' here?"

Davy crouched on the ground, as well. "Well, I just got out of breakfast with Lady Selachii, and I promised William I'd have something for today's paper, so I'm here for tea with Lady Sybil. I was going to ask her some things about her dragon breeding –" He was cut off by a muffled voice saying, "Bingley, bingley beep!" Rolling his eyes, he pulled a Dis-Organizer out of his shirt pocket and opened the flap. "Yes?"

"Ten oh five ay em, mid-morning tea with Lady Sybil," the imp announced, "Would you like to hear the rest of your schedule for today?"

"Sure," Davy replied, even though Mike was frantically shaking his head and had a finger pressed to his lips.

"Twelve pee em, luncheon with Lord Rust," the imp said, "Three pee em, tea with Lady Margolotta. Five pee em, dinner at the Patrician's palace. Seven thirty pee em, gig with the band."

Mike smacked himself in the forehead. "The gig. Of course. That's why we're all suddenly runnin' into each other. It never fails."

"Micky's not here," Davy pointed out, closing the Dis-Organizer and putting it back in his pocket.

"Yes, and I wish you two weren't, either!" Mike exclaimed in exasperation, "I'm tryin' to do my job, and you keep distractin' me! Not to mention how loud you're bein'."

Peter shrugged, standing up. "Well, it's your choice, Mike. I'm sure I'll be hearing about it down at the Watch House either way."

Mike grunted. "Thanks, Pete, that's really encouraging of you."

"You're welcome," Peter replied absently before walking away. Davy also got up and walked away, muttering to himself about tea times and newspaper articles. Mike took a deep breath and tried to relax. He needed to regain his focus. Once again, he picked up the crossbow and rested it on the low wall, sighting and leaning back to wait. He watched Davy enter the dragon house, and, as if on cue, Sam Vimes came out at the exact same time. The two bumped into each other, rude words were briefly exchanged, then Vimes walked around the side of the dragon house. The only problem was that he walked around the wrong side.

Mike swore, but quietly. All the planning, the watching, the waiting, the putting up with interruptions, for what? So his target could walk around the wrong side of a building? He wasn't going to put up with that. Getting up quietly, Mike picked his cloak up off the ground and slung it around his shoulders. Then, after collecting his crossbow and making sure it wasn't about to go off anytime soon, he made his way toward the dragon house. 

The sound of dozens of dragons flaming on and off met his ears as he got closer. He flattened himself against the wall and waited for the sound of Vimes's footsteps. The man would have to show up sometime, and at this close a range, there would be no way he could miss.

Somewhere behind him and slightly above his left shoulder, there was a hiccup. Knowing what would come next, Mike dropped to his knees just in time to avoid the flying swamp dragon remains that shot through the wall. There was a great deal of shouting inside the dragon house, as well as a cry of, "Those damn dragons!" from around the back; it was Vimes. Mike tensed as the footsteps he had been waiting for got closer.

A moment later, Vimes emerged from around the corner. He was lighting a thin cigar and didn't see Mike right away. When Vimes _did _look up, it was into the business end of Mike's crossbow, aimed straight between his eyes.

"Good morning," Vimes said pleasantly. Mike was a little taken aback by this reaction, but he didn't let it affect his aim.

"Good_bye_," he replied, starting to pull the trigger.

"Did it ever occur to you that I could just duck?" said Vimes suddenly. Mike raised his eyebrows and paused for a moment, realizing with increasing embarrassment that he hadn't taken that simple fact into account. He would to be the laughingstock of the Guild, if he even made it back there alive…

"You're also on fire," Vimes continued calmly, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigar. Mike looked around frantically, and realized that Vimes was right. Small flames were licking his right sleeve and spreading rapidly up his arm. The flames must have come from the holes in the dragon house wall. He'd have to do something fast if he didn't want to become a human barbecue.

Ten seconds later, the crossbow hit the ground and went off into the air as Mike rolled around frantically, trying to put out his flaming shirt. Vimes watched with casual interest, puffing on his cigar and trying not to smile. When it seemed that Mike had just about finished flailing, Vimes picked up the crossbow, calmly walked over to where the arrow had fallen, picked it up, fitted it back into the bow, and turned around. What he saw was Mike looking extremely embarrassed.

"Now, I could be nice about this," Vimes began, aiming the crossbow with a slight grin, "But I am not a nice person. And when you've had as many people try and assassinate you as I have, it doesn't pay to be nice. So I'm giving you five seconds to get the hell out of here before I, in a manner of speaking, impale you on your own sword. One…"

Realizing that Vimes was serious, Mike started running and tripped over his cloak, tumbling head over heels and landing sprawled on his back.

"Two…"

Scrambling to get up, Mike threw his cloak to the ground, took two steps, and promptly fell over the low wall he had been hiding behind before.

"Three…"

Deciding that standing up would probably only lead to tripping again, Mike stayed on the ground and tried his best to crawl away at a quick pace.

"Four…"

Mike found himself encountering a tangle of pricker bushes that he wasn't quite sure had been there before, but the whole day had already been giving him trouble; why not dish out some more?

"Five!"

Mike rolled into the pricker bushes and hoped for the best.

"Sam, what are you doing?" Sybil asked, coming out of the dragon house. Davy was soon to follow, scribbling furiously on a notepad.

Vimes lowered the crossbow and flicked the ashes off his cigar. "Nothing, dear," he replied slowly.

"You've got that look, Sam," Sybil persisted, walking over and trying to follow Vimes's gaze, "You're up to something."

"Oh, just another Assassin," Vimes waved his hand as if to dismiss the problem and walked off towards the house. Sybil watched him for a moment, wondering what it was her husband had done to avoid getting killed this time.

In the bushes, Mike was trying to unhook himself from all the prickers before standing up. He didn't have much success, and so he staggered into the Assassin's Guild building fifteen minutes later covered in dirt, dripping sweat, and bleeding with rips in his shirt and pants. Lord Downey regarded him silently for a moment before speaking.

"I'm assuming you did not succeed," he said finally. 

Mike shook his head, trying to brush some of the dirt off his clothes.

"Well," Downey continued, "I can't exactly say that I'm disappointed so much as surprised. You did, after all, come out of it in much better shape than the last few who have tried to assassinate Vimes."

"Uh, thank you sir," Mike replied uncertainly. 

"You've never been my best Assassin; however, I do recognize how much work it is to attempt to fool or trap Vimes," Downey said, "Why don't you go home, clean up, take the rest of the day off?"

This caught Mike off guard, but he wasn't too startled to realize that there was something too good to be true about Downey's suggestion. The look on Downey's face didn't match his tone of voice, and that worried Mike.

"You're not tryin' to fire me, are you sir?" he asked cautiously.

Downey gave Mike a long, cool stare. "You know we don't _fire_ anyone here, Nesmith," he replied evenly. Mike nodded, trying not to shiver. He knew exactly what Lord Downey was telling him, and he didn't like it. Having an Assassin keep an eye on you when you were an Assassin yourself was worse than happy hour in a dwarf bar. Nonetheless, Mike took Downey's suggestion and went home to clean up.

After stripping off his dirty and torn clothes, Mike eased himself into a warm bath, reclining in the water and staring up at the ceiling. He didn't have a bad life, really; it was just that being an Assassin was so dangerous most of the time. Sure, people were afraid of you and you spent most of your time making sure they wouldn't expect you or see you, but that took some pretty strange work. Walking on roofs, falling off walls, tripping over things that were completely unexpected, and then, of course, dealing with Downey or, Mike thought with a shudder, maybe even the Patrician when something went totally wrong.

Then, of course, there was the matter of a personal life. If you were an Assassin, it was pretty much a given that you didn't do much of anything else. Not that it was easy to have a personal life in Ankh-Morpork even if you _weren't_ an Assassin, unless you spent most of you time at the Seamstresses' Guild, but being one did really put a damper on things. You couldn't even go in a pub without being shied away from. Most Assassins lived in or near the Guild building for that reason.

There was the band. Mike couldn't dispute the fact that the band really was a ray of sunshine in his dim Assassin's life. One thing that Ankh-Morpork really lacked was music, and that was one of the reasons that he and the other guys had started the band. At first, they hadn't really been sure that Ankh-Morpork was stable enough to sit down and stop fighting long enough to listen to anyone perform, but it had turned out to work pretty well. Even the dwarfs would put down their battle-axes if a song was interesting enough.

The other guys seemed to have pretty good lives, interesting lives. Peter was almost always on patrol with someone bigger than he was or a dwarf, so it really couldn't be said that he was in any danger; Davy spent his days hobnobbing with the nobs; and Micky…well, Mike wasn't exactly sure what Micky did all day, but it was probably better than running around trying to kill people for money while avoiding getting killed yourself. In fact, Mike couldn't think of a single reason that he had become an Assassin besides the fact that it kept him out of the immediate muck of the city. He got to run around in the pandemonium that the presence of a man with dangerous weapon ensued instead.

Sighing, Mike hauled himself out of the tub and thought about lunch. His stomach rumbled and he realized that he hadn't had breakfast. He wondered why as he pulled on some pants and a fresh shirt before padding out to his small kitchen. After looking in several cabinets and under the sink, Mike came to the conclusion that he didn't have any food. There wasn't even any _dirt_. Every cabinet was completely empty. He tried to recall what he had been eating for the past few days and had vague recollections of some sort of sausage that he didn't want to think too hard about. He must have been pretty desperate to buy anything "inna bun", considering. Ah well, time to hit the pub or something, as long as the dwarfs were sober.

The Mended Drum was full of people, among other things: watchmen on break, dwarfs with nothing better to do, sulking Thieves who hadn't had a profitable morning. Mike sat down behind the bar, balancing his guitar next to him. If he was lucky, the barman would let him practice in the basement like he had the week before.

"Hey, what can I get ya?" the bartender asked, getting to Mike after giving three dwarfs their beer.

"Any kind of sandwich that contains no traces of rat would be fine with me," Mike replied, earning several strange looks from the dwarfs.

The bartender thought for a minute. "I think I can find something."

"Thanks," Mike sat back and looked around the pub again, hoping he wouldn't run into any more trouble. The last thing he needed was to be battered and bruised more than he already was before the gig that night. He absentmindedly dug in his pockets so that he could pay the bartender for the upcoming sandwich…and panicked.

"Here's your sandwich…what's the problem?" the bartender asked when he saw the look on Mike's face.

"Well, there really is no problem other than the fact that I'm famished and entirely broke," Mike sighed. The bartender looked at him, then his gaze traveled to the guitar resting on the edge of the bar.

"Tell ya what," he said slowly, resting his chin in his hand, "I'll give you the sandwich if you play a song for me and the rest."

Mike considered this. He wasn't too keen on singing in front of a full bar by himself, especially since he hadn't practiced in nearly a week. He also wasn't quite sure what he could play; the band's performances usually consisted of music that was unheard of on nearly the whole of the Disc. On top of that, he didn't want to give away any of that night's performance for the sake of one measly sandwich. On the other hand, he was extremely hungry, and the sandwich sure looked better than any of Dibbler's sausages. With a shrug, Mike picked up his guitar and plucked the strings.

"All right," he agreed, figuring he had nothing to lose except possibly several members of his impromptu audience. He cleared his throat.

__

"Love to me is blue-eyed and blonde.

Oh, that's sweet Magnolia.

Apple pie on the window still warm.

That's my sweet Magnolia

Walking under a sky that's so blue

After rain has fallen.

When she's walking so close by my side

My troubles seem to just run and hide.

Well, walking under a sky that's so blue

After rain has fallen.

When she's walking so close by my side

My troubles seem to just run and hide.

Magnolia Simms is my little doll.

I can't live without her.

For if she goes my world will just fall.

Stay with me, Magnolia.

Stay with me, Magnolia."

("Magnolia Simms", by Michael Nesmith).

Mike looked up to find that half the pub had their hands over their ears. The other half offered piecemeal applause and hastened toward the door. Mike shrugged and rested his guitar against the bar again. The bartender pushed the sandwich toward him.

"Here you go," he said, grinning. Mike gratefully took a bite of the sandwich, chewed for a moment, and probably would have spit it out if he hadn't been so hungry.

"This is a _terrible_ sandwich!" he exclaimed when his mouth was empty.

"Well kid," the bartender laughed, "That was a _terrible_ song."

Mike rolled his eyes, "Thanks a lot." But he finished the sandwich all the same. Afterwards, he didn't bother to ask for practicing time in the basement, considering the look of extreme fear on the bartender's face when he picked up his guitar again.

"Huh! Maybe I should have used _that_ on Vimes," Mike huffed to himself as he headed home.

Quickly, Mike discovered how boring it was to have nothing to do. After two solid hours of staring at the wall and attempting to practice his guitar without the upstairs neighbors dropping things on him through the holes in the ceiling, he decided to take action, do something, break the rut. Now, what did he normally do when he wasn't being an Assassin? He thought for a moment and realized that he didn't do much of anything except sleep.

"Well, I'm gonna change that right now," Mike muttered. He tried to find something in his wardrobe that wasn't black and came up with two ripped t-shirts and an ancient "Live Large In Klatch" sweater that some distant cousin had sent him one year on Hogswatch. However, in the back of the drawer, there was a pair of jeans. Pretty beat-up jeans, but wearable jeans. Mike paired that with a button-up black shirt and figured that it looked all right. So, in that and a cape, he set out.

Amazingly, he was excited. He had never been excited about walking around the city, at least not that he could remember. Maybe something about it had interested him when he was a kid, but that would have been back before his parents decided to send him to the Assassins' school. No wonder he wasn't cut out for that life; it had been chosen for him, pulling him in before he had his say. Well, not today. It might have started terribly, but Mike was determined to make the most of it.

Since he wasn't quite sure where to start, Mike began going over in his head everything that he'd been told to avoid as a kid. This turned out to be quite a list: don't go near the Shades (easy enough, nobody ever did); don't bother the Patrician, especially if you weren't partial to sudden death (the same went for most of the lords in the city); avoid the Fool's Guild if you were afraid of clowns (who wasn't?); don't swim in the river Ankh (you could easily knock yourself out trying to dive in); and, most importantly, don't ever pester a drunken dwarf. Mike seemed to recall some reason for avoiding Unseen University, as well, but he couldn't remember quite what it was at the moment.

And then, of course, why did he even have to stay in Ankh-Morpork at all? Besides the band, there was nothing there to keep him. Mike figured that the only reason he probably stayed in the city was that he had always lived there. But then, how hard was it to get a horse somewhere and just travel? There was the whole Disc to explore, and Mike had always wanted to see the Rimbow…

"Look, it's the guy who sang that terrible song in the pub!" The sudden shout caused Mike to stop and look over his shoulder. A dozen or so dwarfs were standing about a yard behind him, and all of them looked mildly drunk. Two or three had their axes out, and it seemed that they had been fighting amongst themselves before spotting Mike. Mike didn't give them any time to process what had been shouted; he instinctively started to run.

"Get him!" shouted one of the dwarfs. A dozen pairs of feet gave chase. Mike began to panic, ducked into the nearest alley, and continued running, only stopping when he was sure that what was in front of him would put him in less danger than what was behind him. Fortunately, the dwarfs had given up, probably to fight with each other again, and Mike resumed his leisurely pace. Now, where was he? Ah yes, the Rimbow…

"Mike! Hey Mike!" This time, it was a shout that jerked Mike out of his thoughts. He looked around and realized that he was in back of Unseen University. Shielding his eyes, Mike looked up. Yes, now he remembered why he usually avoided Unseen U. He had never wanted to be around wizards when they had the location and the potential to be wizarding. Now one was looking down at Mike from four stories up and pointing to the ground.

"Micky? What are you doin' up there?" Mike asked finally.

"I was trying to have a smoke," Micky replied, "But I, ah, dropped my tobacco. See it?" Here Micky paused and pointed to the ground again, "Could you toss it up to me?"

Mike looked at the ground and saw a small, paper packet lying a few feet away. He looked from the packet to Micky and back again, then called, "I can't throw this thing all the way up there."

"You don't need to," Micky replied, "Just get it started; I'll take care of it the rest of the way."

Mike raised his eyebrows, but picked up the packet anyway. With a grunt, he heaved it straight up into the air. As he had expected, it only went halfway to where Micky was, but instead of falling back to the ground, the packet floated gently upward and landed on the windowsill in front of Micky. He grinned and immediately started rolling a cigarette.

"Thanks!" he called down to Mike.

"Anytime," Mike called back, shaking his head and continuing his walk. He wondered if it was safe to pick up his train of thought again. Probably not.

He turned out to be right. Five minutes later, he ran into a fellow Guild member, known only as "Owens".

"Mike!" Owens exclaimed, "I heard the job with Vimes went kind of…poorly."

Mike sighed. "Yeah, it did," he replied, "But at least I got out of it alive. I hear Downey's gonna bring the Patrician up at the next meeting. You volunteering or what?"

Owens shook his head. "No way in the world. It's good money, but the Patrician? Assassinating an Assassin isn't exactly easy. And he's got the brains to plan a counterattack, too. Hell, he's got the brains to plan a _pre_-counterattack. I swear the man can see us coming before _we_ even know we're coming!"

Mike laughed, but in his mind he was trying frantically to find a way out of the conversation. 

"I hear ya," he managed.

"Well, I've got to be going," Owens said, glancing up, "See you around the Guild, I guess."

"Yeah, see ya," Mike nodded, looking around for the quickest exit. As soon as Owens was gone, Mike legged it into the next alley. He hated it when other Assassins treated him like a friend, especially since he didn't get along with most of them. For some reason, the rules changed once you got outside the Guild building. All the Assassins suddenly hobnobbed, like it was their duty to stick together. At least it seemed that way to Mike. All he knew was that people who treated him like total scum in the Guild building treated him like a brother on the streets. It was extremely annoying.

A faint background rustling caught his attention. He looked around, then glanced up on a hunch. All he saw were the tops of buildings poking into the sky, but there was something else, a presence…and that made Mike uneasy.

Five minutes later, he had found a ladder and climbed up onto the nearest accessible roof. The problem with the roofs of Ankh-Morpork was that they were seldom all the same height. All anyone or anything had to do was pick a roof at just the right level, one at which you weren't standing, and they could hide pretty much undetectably. Mike scrabbled up to the next roof and looked around again. Still, there was nothing. The roofs were as bare as the alley had been, if not more so. _In that case_, Mike thought, _Something is definitely going on_.

Very carefully, Mike felt around in an inner pocket in his cape for the dagger he knew was there. His hand had just closed on the small hilt when there was another rustling noise and one strange sound, kind of like several simultaneous clicks. Mike wondered if he should turn around. He was pretty sure what he would find if he did. He quickly tried to recall the best way to use a dagger at long-range. All right, that was it. Time to act.

In one swift movement, Mike spun around and let the dagger go at an angle. It sliced through three arrows and most of one Assassin's upper arm before stopping. The other four Assassins were sufficiently startled, and the one that still had a working crossbow aimed for Mike while the others reloaded. Mike took the hint and jumped off the roof, landing hard on the cobblestones below. He swore when he felt his wrist crack under him, but he got up and ran anyway.

"Come back here you coward!" shouted one of the Assassins giving chase. Normally, Assassins wouldn't try to shoot someone down in the street like some filthy, common murderer. They had their style and twisted form of etiquette. But this was a special job.

Mike knew the Assassins' little code, but he also knew how Downey's mind worked. As he ran, Mike went over the earlier conversation in his head. That look on Downey's face still made Mike uneasy. Downey had been right in saying that the Guild never _fired_ anyone. What he hadn't said was that they _did _rid themselves of "unwanted" members. Mike was pretty sure that the Vimes fiasco, coupled with many of his past fumbles and failures, qualified him.

Getting an idea and hoping it would work, Mike turned down the next dead-end alley and stood with his back to the wall, so as to be facing the oncoming Assassins. With his good hand, he fished around in another inner pocket, coming up with a short knife. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use it, but it helped to be prepared. A second later, the four Assassins came around the corner. One of them motioned for the others to stop, and three crossbows were raised.

"Well, well, well, look who's in another tight spot," smirked the Assassin who had motioned. Mike gasped; it was Owens.

"Not for long," he managed to say, brandishing the knife and trying to look menacing.

Owens took one look at the knife and burst out laughing. The other Assassins sniggered.

"This is too much," Owens said between chuckles, "You are so desperate…and pathetic…"

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Really? I didn't think I was the one with that problem."

"Oh come now," Owens regained his composure and gazed levelly at Mike, "You know how it goes."

"I know how it goes for _you_," Mike replied, "But it doesn't go that way for me. By the looks of things, I'm not an Assassin anymore, and that means I don't have to play by your rules."

Owens looked a bit taken aback by this statement. His eyes traveled to the knife in Mike's hand again. He seemed to come to a decision, and motioned again to the Assassins behind him. Three crossbows were cocked, and suddenly, Mike began to laugh. This threw Owens off completely.

"_What_ is so funny?" he demanded. 

"You can't judge a book by lookin' at the cover," Mike replied, shaking with the force of his laugher. He draped an arm companionably across Owens' shoulders in an effort to support himself, "You really can't."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Owens demanded, trying with little success to stay calm.

"You can't judge a book by lookin' at the cover!" Mike repeated, sweeping away and slamming his dagger into a nearby wall where it stuck, quivering, "I'm not an Assassin anymore? Isn't it great? Yeehaw!"

The other Assassins were backing away. Owens wasn't quite sure what to do; Mike didn't seem to be stable at the moment, so it was hard to guess what his next move might be. However, Owens knew what would happen to him if he didn't finish the job. But his shock kept him from pulling the trigger on his crossbow.

"I'm not an Assassin anymore!" Mike shouted again. He was sprinting away down the street, leaving the stunned Assassins behind him. He would have been doing cartwheels, but his wrist wouldn't allow it.

It didn't take him long to get back to his house. He burst in the front door, paused to lock it behind him, then leaned against it, panting and trying to stop laughing. His wrist was really hurting him now; he knew he'd have to see someone about it. For now, though, he was content with calming himself down and letting the full realization of what had just happened hit him.

_I'm not an Assassin anymore_, he thought, _I'm not. It's really over! I'm free!_

And, for the first time in weeks, Mike was happy.


	3. Chapter 3 - Micky's Day (In Which Micky ...

"Good morning, Archchancellor!" Micky called on his way back from breakfast.

"Good morning," Ridcully replied absently, rooting around in his hat.

"Good morning, Dean," Micky called to the Dean.

"Good morning young…student wizard," the Dean replied, wondering why the students always said hello to him. All it did was pressure him to remember names, which he never could.

Micky chuckled to himself and continued on towards the Library. On the way, he ran into the Bursar.

"Good morning, Bursar," he said politely.

"Melon and kumquat, my good man!" the Bursar replied. He had nearly been on the calm seas of sanity the day before, but this morning seemed to have dawned on a storm somewhere in his brain.

"Really? Peanuts and cheese," Micky said, deciding that trying to have a conversation would be interesting.

"Crackers. Orange and white," the Bursar said after a moment's thought.

"Purple," Micky added.

"Melon and kumquat," the Bursar insisted, seeming to want to emphasize that point.

"What about apples, peaches, bananas, and pears?" Micky asked, not missing a beat. The Bursar seemed stumped by this and walked off, muttering to himself. Micky laughed.

"Someone hasn't had their dried frog pills today," he commented, heading for the Library. He had always liked the Library, despite its habit of suddenly being on a different plane. There was something about the way the magic crackled through the air. The books occasionally shifting or ruffling a page didn't bother Micky in the least; in fact, he thought, it gave the room some personality. That and there weren't a whole lot of people in there at any one time. Even if there were, the Library could make itself seem empty.

Micky pushed open one of the Library's big, heavy doors and slipped inside. His reason for this particular visit to the home of all books magical was a mission of concealment. Basically, he was hiding from the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who he was supposed to be meeting with in ten minutes. Like it was _his_ fault that he'd written one stupid rune backwards? It's not like it blew up more than a couple windows and the Lecturer's hat. The Lecturer hadn't been amused, however, and held Micky's hysterical laughter following the explosion in complete contempt. Knowing how angry the Lecturer could get, Micky thought it better to just lay low, instead of getting the riot act read to him. Chances were that the Lecturer in Recent Runes would forget about the meeting, go off for a quiet smoke, and be calm by afternoon.

"Ook!" The exclamation met Micky as soon as the Library door closed behind him.

"No, I'm not carrying anything ignited," Micky replied.

"Oook!" the Librarian nodded, then knuckled off down a row of particularly rowdy books that were trying to break their chains to fly around the room. Micky followed him, looking for a book that he knew was in the row somewhere, or at least it had been the last time he checked.

"Let's see…mustard, muskrat, geez, where is it…ah! Here it is: _Magic for the Musically Irreparable_," Micky pulled the thick volume off the shelf and riffled through the index until he found the entry for drums, "Oh good, it's only a couple chapters. I'll have those songs licked by tonight!"

"Oook?" the Librarian questioned.

"Oh, gig with the band," Micky replied absently.

"Ook ook?"

"Tonight, actually, in Sator Square."

"Ook."

"I know it's a merchant place, but there are always a lot of people there."

"Ook. Oook?"

"The name of the band? Oh," Micky lowered the book and regarded the Librarian carefully for a moment. What harm could it do? Micky shrugged and told the Librarian the band's name. The Librarian raised his eyebrows as much as an orangutan can.

"Oook! Ook, eek!" he complained, shaking a finger.

"No, with two E's," Micky explained hurriedly. The last thing he needed was to get clobbered by a 300-pound ape.

The Librarian scratched something in the dust on the floor and pointed to it. "Ook?" 

Micky bent down to have a look. "Sort of," he affirmed, "But more like this." He rearranged the letters the Librarian had drawn so that they looked somewhat like a guitar. The Librarian clapped.

"Hey, you should come," Micky said suddenly, "It starts at eight, and it's not that far to go."

"Ook!" the Librarian nodded.

"All right, then I'll expect you. Can I take this book with me?"

"Ook! Oook, ook!"

"Okay, okay, I'll be careful with it. It'll be back before dark, I promise," Micky laughed, leaving the Library with the book tucked under his arm.

What a day, already. Sleeping late, long breakfast, no classes, and his drums. Micky couldn't think of anything better, except possibly the day that he had been promoted to the fourth level. Of course, it didn't take much to make him happy. A quiet place to practice, a few new spells, and his friends were often enough.

Micky's history as a wizard was pretty strange. He wasn't the conventional "eighth son of an eighth son"; in fact, there weren't even eight people in his immediate family. If you asked him to tell you when he first arrived at the University, Micky would probably reply with something vague like, "Oh, when I was a kid". His mother barely remembered where Micky got his wizardly powers. But sometimes, in the depths of the night, Micky would have vague dreams about a tall, red-clad wizard with a moon on his hat and a long, wooden staff that shone with an unseen light. He supposed that was where everything had started, though he couldn't really be sure why. All he knew was that he could do magic and, despite their past of fighting for positions and attempting to bump one another off, being a wizard made Micky happy.

When he reached his room, Micky tossed his pointy hat on the floor and sprawled on the bed with the music book opened in front of him. The drums had been another odd addition to his life. He had never really thought about performing any kind of music, except the conventional hairbrush-in-front-of-the-mirror variety. Then suddenly, one night after sneaking out for a drink, he'd run into some people practicing guitars in the basement of the Mended Drum. Those people turned out to be Mike and Peter, who were trying to avoid the prying ears of the public until they got a few songs down. That, and when they practiced at home they usually got threatened by the neighbors. Micky had complemented their music, and suddenly Mike was offering him a position in the band that they were trying to put together. Micky remembered the conversation well.

"Me? Join a band?" he had said.

"Sure. We're looking for singers and a drummer," Mike replied.

"Ah, well, I don't really do either…" Micky admitted.

"You could learn. It's not hard," Peter had put in.

"Yeah, and by the looks of it, you're a wizard," Mike added, "That's bound to help."

"Well I…" Micky paused, then came to a decision, "All right then, when do we start?"

"We practice down here whenever we can," Mike explained, "Sometimes together, sometimes not. We've only got a few songs so far, but if you meet me here at, say, midnight tomorrow, I'll show you the music."

And that had been that. Micky and Mike had met in the basement of the Drum at midnight the next night, and Micky had returned to his room in the University with some sketchy drum lines for Mike and Peter's songs. Everything had progressed from there, and the band had accumulated more songs, plus recruited Davy. Micky would be the first to admit that he still wasn't a wonderful drummer, but he tried and he certainly enjoyed himself.

Returning to the book after his brief flashback, Micky studied the spells that made instruments play by themselves. That might be of help, especially if he wanted to see exactly how to correct the mistakes he knew he was making, plus identify any others he might have been missing. The problem was that the spells were only one or two syllables away from other similar ones that could cause some very different results. Micky wanted to play the drums, not blow them up or turn them into lemon custard. Still, he tried the spells, taking care to read each word extremely carefully before trying to say it aloud. Finally, the drumsticks floated into the air, and Micky read on. With luck, he'd have them banging out the end part of "Star Collector" in no time.

About twenty minutes later, Micky was watching his drums intently as the sticks went up and down, playing nearly the entire gig through by themselves. Micky was impressed, and bit overwhelmed. There was a lot to correct by seven-thirty that night. If worse came to worse, he could use a disguise spell that made it so nobody noticed any mistakes, but he was pretty stubborn about learning his part as best he could. 

After watching the drums for a few more minutes, Micky went down to lunch. On the way back to his room, he paused on one of the landings for a quick smoke. Then, with a sigh, he returned to his room, sat down at the drums, and began to practice.

ER, EXCUSE ME…

Micky started and turned around slowly, the feeling of time slowing jangling his nerves. Standing several feet behind him was a tall, skeletal, black-clad figure, holding a scythe and a violin.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Micky demanded, "I can't be dying _yet_."

ACTUALLY, I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD HELP ME.

"_Help_ you?"

ER, YES. Death held up the violin and Micky saw that two strings were broken, DO THERE HAPPEN TO BE ANY SPELLS IN THAT BOOK FOR VIOLINS?

"I, ah…" Micky was at a loss for words. Here was Death asking him to help with a sorry-looking old violin. Who knew that Death played the violin? From the looks of it he just battered the poor thing, but Micky figured he should at least look in the book. Being in the immediate presence of Death made him uneasy, and who could blame him?

IT'S ONLY THAT, I'VE GOT THIS VIOLIN, AND I CAN'T SEEM TO PLAY IT, Death explained, almost apologetically. Micky just nodded and flipped through the index.

"Violins, right here," he said suddenly, almost to himself. He didn't turn around, but he could feel Death looking over his shoulder. He found the chapter and scanned it. "Well, there's a section on stringing it by magic, and something about lulling people to sleep, and something else about romance…I don't think any of that will help."

ARE YOU SURE?

Micky shrugged. "There doesn't seem to be anything here that tells you how to play or how to make it play itself, which is actually rather odd. Nothing about personifications playing instruments, either."

Death attempted to look disappointed. NOTHING AT ALL?

"Nope," Micky snapped the book shut with newfound confidence.

AH WELL, THANK YOU ANYWAY, Death said slowly, SORRY TO BOTHER YOU.

"Hey, no problem," Micky brushed the comment off and stood up.

WHY WERE YOU BANGING ON THOSE…ERM…DRUMS?

Micky turned, regarding Death with curiosity. "I thought you were supposed to know that sort of stuff about people."

WELL, NOT _ALL_ OF IT, Death admitted, MY LIBRARY IS RATHER LARGE.

"I…see," said Micky, who didn't. He hadn't had as many encounters with Death as some of the other wizards, and therefore didn't know as much about the way Death worked. In fact, most people didn't know nearly as much about Death as they thought they did, but that was somewhat understandable considering the fact that normal people didn't usually see him until the moment after they died.

I UNDERSTAND WHY HUMANS PLAY MUSIC. IT MAKES SENSE. IT GIVES THEM A FEELING OF ACCOMPLISHMENT AND FUN. DO THE DRUMS GIVE YOU A FEELING OF ACCOMPLISHMENT AND FUN?

Micky stared for a moment, his mouth open, before being able to pull himself together. Death was…curious. He was genuinely interested in something about…_life_. Micky didn't pretend to know why Death had chosen that particular moment to start asking questions, but he couldn't see any harm in answering.

"Yeah," he said finally, "They do. Although sometimes the songs turn out to be harder than I bargained for."

I HAVE A FEELING THAT, EVEN IF I COULD PLAY, SONGS WOULD STILL ESCAPE ME, Death sighed.

"Hey, not everybody's musical," Micky said comfortingly, realizing he was trying to reassure a seven-foot skeleton who would someday arrive to separate his soul from his body, "And it's awfully hard to find a large group of people who appreciate the music once you learn to play it, anyway. There was that time when people in the Klatchian's Head were throwing axes at – well, you should know; you were there. I saw you show up."

Death appeared to think for a moment. OH YES. THERE WERE FOUR OF YOU, WERE THERE NOT?

Micky nodded.

I SEEM TO REMEMBER THAT THE SHORT ONE THREW HIS INSTRUMENT BACKSTAGE SO THAT HE COULD "CHASE" IT AND HIDE, Death said, almost looking amused, THE REST OF YOU WEREN'T TOO HAPPY ABOUT THAT. He rummaged around in his cloak for a moment and pulled out an hourglass. SPEAKING OF, I HAD SEVERAL FALSE ALARMS TODAY WITH YOUR GUITARIST THERE…WHAT'S HIS NAME…MICHAEL?

"He didn't get hurt, did he?" Micky asked, suddenly concerned. He knew that Mike's job hadn't been going well lately, and Mike hadn't looked all that calm earlier that day when he'd rescued Micky's tobacco.

NOT BADLY, Death replied. He suddenly seemed to remember that he had duties beyond his violin, and looked somewhat preoccupied. Micky shook his head.

"Well, hopefully the gig will pass without incident tonight," he said loudly.

HOPEFULLY, Death nodded, then disappeared. Rolling his eyes, Micky went back to the drums. He had to get _some_ practicing in before dinner because, knowing wizards, dinner would last almost until the gig started. Micky really wasn't into those multi-course meals and usually opted to sneak out later on for a sandwich and some sort of drink. He was one of the few people at the University who hadn't started hauling around extra weight after his first few months of attendance. In most other respects, however, he was very wizard-like. For example, whenever someone mentioned the fact that wizards were supposed to be celibate, Micky instinctively stuck his hands behind his back and whistled along with about three-quarters of the University students and staff.

Dinner rolled around about an hour later. Micky wandered down, flexing his fingers and staring at the blisters that were starting to form on his palms. He hadn't seen blisters like that since he'd failed a Dynamic Thaumography test his first year. Oh well, he was sure there was a spell somewhere that could fix it before the gig.

Most of the senior wizards were already in the hall, eating. Ridcully seemed to be arguing with the Dean and Ponder Stibbons at the same time, so Micky sat down a few chairs away just for entertainment's sake.

"They say that band made the whole Disc go wacky," the Dean was saying, "Sometimes I have dreams about a weird hairdo and Death wanting my coat…or something."

"I still say you're crazy, Dean," Ridcully replied, helping himself to more wine, "I mean, Music With Rocks In? That's far-fetched."

"Nobody has ever been able to prove that those people even existed," added Ponder.

"I still think it's a good story," the Dean said stubbornly.

"I like it," the Bursar chimed in placidly, his chin resting on his hand as he stared at a point somewhere above Ridcully's left ear.

"Is it time for your dried frog pills already, old chap?" Ridcully pulled a complicated-looking watch out of his hat and glanced at it. Micky took the opportunity to do a little advertising.

"I heard that the concert tonight in Sator Square is going to be better than any fairy story," he said slyly, taking the wine bottle from Ridcully and upending it into his own glass. The other wizards stared at him as wine splashed the table.

"What?" Ridcully asked finally.

"The concert. Tonight. In Sator Square," Micky repeated slowly, mopping up the spilled wine with his napkin and pushing it towards the Bursar. There was a concentrated silence like that of several people thinking the same thing but trying not to look at each other _for fear _that they were all thinking the same thing.

"Concert, eh?" Ridcully scratched his chin. The impact seemed to have gone right over his head, which was quite possible when you considered it, "Music?"

"Yes," Micky said patiently. There were some things you just had to explain to Ridcully. Actually, most things.

"Instruments and suchlike?"

"That's usually how you make music, Archchancellor," Ponder put in.

"That's just like you, Mister Stibbons," Ridcully sniffed and rooted around in his hat, coming up with a pipe, "Always acting like the logical answer is the right one."

Ponder looked a little taken aback, but it was clear from his expression that he didn't want to get into any further arguments with Ridcully, so he kept his mouth shut. Micky, however, was determined. He didn't run into Ridcully much, but he was keenly aware of the way the man thought.

"Yes, Archchancellor," Micky said again, "Instruments, music, singing, the whole bit."

"Well then, we might just have to supervise that," the Dean said quickly. Micky grinned. There was no better time to advertise a concert to a group of people than after they had just heard the legend of the Band With Rocks In.

"I'd like to go," said the Bursar with the same spacey, placid look.

"Top pocket, green tin, old chap," Ridcully advised. Then he turned to the other wizards, waving his hands. "Rubbish, the lot of it!" he exclaimed, "Instruments and singing and music…what has it got to do with magic? This is a university, and I won't have my wizards bumbling off to concerts at all hours of the night!"

"But Mustrum –" began the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

Ridcully cut him off. "No buts! No wizards are going to that concert, and that's that." He huffed and folded his arms across his chest, puffing angrily on his pipe.

The Bursar took this as an opportunity to pick up Micky's wine-laden napkin and wring it out over the Archchancellor's head. The other wizards exploded with laughter, and Micky had the thought that perhaps the old Bursar wasn't quite as crazy as everyone supposed.

Micky sat at the window in his room about ten minutes later, rolling a cigarette. He'd left the Great Hall when Ridcully had started chasing the Dean with a loaf of Klatchian bread. Things always got a little strange when the senior wizards had been drinking too much, which was most of the time. Normally, Micky was up for that kind of thing and joined in more often than not, but tonight he felt that he needed a little time to himself before the gig. Something was bothering him, and he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He was just going over the afternoon in his head when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he called absently. The door opened slowly, admitting Ponder Stibbons. He was closely followed by the Dean, the Chair of Indefinite Studies, and the Bursar.

"Er, Micky right?" Ponder inquired nervously.

Micky nodded. "Yeah. What's up?"

"Well, we were just wondering…" Ponder trailed off, looking everywhere but at Micky.

"Yeah, and you know how Mustrum was at dinner…" the Dean added.

"I want to go to the concert," said the Bursar plainly.

"I know that," Micky replied, "So come."

Ponder stared. "You mean it?"

Micky shrugged. "Why not?"

"Will there be Music With Rocks In?" the Dean asked hopefully.

"Lots," Micky told him, not really knowing what else to say. Compared to the legend, Micky figured that the band did music that was enough like Music With Rocks In that it would please the wizards.

The Dean grinned. "Well then, when does it start?"

"Eight o'clock," Micky replied, pulling a watch out of a pocket in his robe, "And I've got to get going. See you there, I guess."

The wizards nodded enthusiastically. Micky rolled his eyes and pushed his way between them and out of the room, carrying his drumsticks. Hopefully one of the other guys had been able to rent a good set from somewhere or at least nonchalantly "borrow" one, because he didn't want to have to come back and try to levitate his set down to Sator Square. Not only was it a complicated spell, but it caused quite a backup on the stairway.

At the bottom of the tower, Micky stopped, looked down at his wizard's robe, and shook his head.

"I can't go to the gig like this," he muttered, digging around in his pockets, then his hat, trying to find some money. His last performance outfit had been ruined when a drunken dwarf threw his dinner at the stage, and Micky had been so busy with learning his part that getting a new one had slipped his mind. He checked his watch again. Well, he had about forty-five minutes; that should be enough. Better take the back door out of the Library to avoid Ridcully.

With a grin, Micky set off, still not quite sure of what had been bothering him before the wizards had barged in.


	4. Chapter 4 - Peter's Day (In Which Peter ...

Peter stared down at the piece of paper on his desk again. It wasn't much, really, just a short note in Vimes's cramped, hurried scrawl; but what it said was a big change.

For as long as Peter could remember, he had been a constable. Ever since the day he had joined the Watch, it had been "constable" this and "constable" that. Nobody ever talked about promoting him, and Peter couldn't see what the big deal was, anyway. He was happy with constable. It worked, and it sounded right: Constable Tork.

But this…this note changed that. You, it said, are a corporal. Actually, what it really said was something along the lines of, "we're in need of another corporal, you're in need of a promotion, here you go." Corporal Tork; how bad did that sound? And not only that, but Peter had usually been sent on patrol with people he liked, people who didn't really need accompaniment but who took someone else along anyway, just for company. Now who would he be sent out with? Sergeant Colon? Corporal Nobbs? The thought was enough to make his stomach turn. No, he was going to have to have a talk with Vimes about this.

Peter was just about to get up when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened slowly, revealing the bullet head of Corporal Littlebottom.

"There's someone downstairs who wants to talk to you about something," she reported.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "That all?"

"Well, he wasn't very specific. He's laughing and having trouble stopping," the dwarf shrugged.

"Ah well, let him in," Peter said agreeably. There wasn't any reason to refuse, really; it was a welcome delay of the inevitable, considering that confronting Commander Vimes was way down on every watchman's list of smart things to do.

A minute later, Mike entered Peter's small office, cradling his left arm and chuckling.

"Oh, er, well good morning Mike," Peter greeted him with surprise.

"Mornin' Pete," Mike returned happily, sitting down in the chair opposite Peter's desk.

"What happened to you?" Peter inquired, gesturing towards Mike's arm.

Mike looked down almost as if he hadn't realized something was wrong. "Oh, that, yeah, that's what I'm here about, actually. You guys have an Igor, right?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah."

"Good, because I broke my wrist."

"_What_?"

"Long story," Mike waved the impending explanation away with his good hand, "Let's just say I'm out of a job and I'm happy about it."

Peter raised his eyebrows, but all he said was, "Well, let's go see Igor then, c'mon. I've got to go that way, anyhow."

"Why?" Mike asked as he followed Peter out of the room.

"I've got to talk to Commander Vimes about this," Peter handed the note to Mike, who read it and whistled.

"Wow Peter, corporal huh? What'd you do to get that one?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know, but I don't want it."

It was Mike's turn to not ask questions. He continued to follow Peter until they came to a door on the first floor of the Watch House. Peter opened the door and poked his head in.

"Igor?"

"Yeth?" Igor turned away from his workbench, where he had been doing something with twine and fingernails.

"You any good a broken wrists?" Peter opened the door a little wider to reveal Mike.

Igor came over and gingerly examined Mike's wrist, tutting to himself and nodding occasionally. Soon, he straightened up.

"I can take care of thith, no sweat," he reported, "Come with me." He gestured for Mike to follow him through a door next to the workbench. As soon as they were out of sight, Peter turned and headed in the direction of Vimes's office, trying to think of a calm way to approach the subject.

First off, was the only reason he didn't want a promotion the fact that he wasn't too thrilled about the other people occupying similar positions? There had to be more than that; Vimes hated practically everyone, yet he still dealt with them, so an argument like that wouldn't stand. There was always the idea of not feeling safe, but Vimes would probably have a retort for that one, too. "The city isn't safe," he'd say, or something like that. By the time Peter reached the door to Vimes's office, the best thing he had come up with was to ask why he had been promoted in the first place, and if there was any particular reason why he _had_ to be a corporal. He lifted his hand to knock and was nearly blown down the stairs by Vimes exiting his office at high speed.

"Sorry corporal, no time to talk!" he called, sprinting down the stairs. Peter raised and eyebrow and followed Vimes curiously. It wasn't hard; although Peter kept losing sight of the commander, he simply followed the resulting trail of bewildered looks. Finally, he came out the back door of the Watch House and saw Vimes heading down Peach Pie Street in a flat-out run. Thinking that this was quite possibly none of his business, Peter began to run, as well.

Vimes stopped outside an alley quite suddenly, and Peter skidded to a halt, opting to watch from several buildings away. He half-hid behind an abandoned sales stall and watched.

Vimes entered the alley. There were shouts, then a surprised silence. He emerged a moment later, leading a young woman gently by the elbow. Peter couldn't tell, but the girl appeared to be crying. Vimes spoke to her, then turned and shouted at whoever remained in the alley, shaking his fist and pointing to his badge. Suddenly, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a half-smoked cigar. He lit it so calmly that Peter felt as though he was watching the scene in slow motion. What was the commander _doing_?

That question was answered a moment later when Vimes puffed on the cigar until the end nearly flamed, then flicked it into the alley. There was a muffled explosion and Vimes drew the young woman back against the wall as bits of wood, among other things, flew out of the alley. Nodding, Vimes put an arm around the girl's shoulders and headed back towards the Watch House. It was then that he noticed Peter.

"Ah, corporal, could you give me a hand here?" he asked, not apparently surprised that Peter had followed him.

"Sir?" said Peter, a bit puzzled.

Vimes indicated the sobbing young lady. "She won't tell me anything. You're better with people than I am, corporal, you talk to her."

Peter decided not to point out the fact that the reason Vimes had such poor people skills was because his mere presence caused most people to feel as if they were under intense interrogation. Instead, he put an arm around the girl and gently piloted her away from Vimes.

"I'll just…take her on a walk then?" he suggested.

Vimes nodded. "See if you can find out anything about the explosives."

"Yessir." Peter began to walk, and the girl went along beside him simply, it seemed, because that was the safest thing to do at that point.

"It's all right, you know," Peter said at length, "Whoever was in that alley is gone." Judging by the size of the earlier explosion and the nature of some of the bits that had flown out of the alley, he felt quite confident in saying this.

The girl continued to cry. Not quite sure of what he was doing, Peter stopped walking and gave the girl an awkward hug. She sobbed into his shoulder for several minutes before drawing back and wiping her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, "I was just so…startled. And frightened." She punctuated her apology with several hiccups.

"Is this the wrong time to ask you what happened?" Peter inquired carefully, hoping his question wouldn't bring fresh sobs from the girl.

"N-no. I think I'm fine," the girl replied, pulling her fingers through her long brown hair, "And I'm not exactly sure what was going on, but I can tell you what it looked like." 

"That's a start," Peter smiled encouragingly.

The girl took a deep breath. "Well," she began, "I was on a walk, and I was going past the docks. There was some sort of ruckus going on, and two people came out of the crowd, carrying something between them and running. Someone yelled, 'Stop! Unlicensed thief!' and someone else started chasing them. I was pretty curious, but I didn't follow. In fact, I really ended up in that alley by accident. I turned in there to get away from Dibbler and his sausages and found these three people and a box of fireworks. One of them was the unlicensed thief, and the other two were Assassins, I think. One of them might have been a licensed thief. Either way, once I saw them, they wouldn't let me leave, and by the time Vimes showed up the thief and the Assassin were arguing about whether or not to kill me. It was scary, to say the least." The girl shook her head.

Unlicensed thieves and Assassins? Peter sighed. You hardly ever met anyone hospitable when you were a watchman. Of course, it wasn't a watchman's job to be a social person. You just caught the wrongdoers and kept out of the way of any planned Guild business. And then, of course, there was the way Vimes handled the law…

Peter wasn't paying attention to where he was going and rounded a corner, running directly in to Captain Carrot. Peter blinked and rubbed his nose. Running into Carrot was somewhat like running into a brick wall, only shinier. 

"Oh, good afternoon corporal," said Carrot, his voice cheery. 

"Afternoon, captain," Peter replied. Geez, news traveled fast! Carrot knew practically everything about everyone anyway, but Peter had only just found out about the corporal thing himself. There was something about the way Carrot said the word "corporal", though. He made it sound important.

"And hello there, Windy is it?" Carrot said to the girl. She laughed.

"Hello, Captain Carrot."

Peter looked at Carrot and shook his head. "You really do know everyone, don't you?"

"I get around," Carrot replied with an honest smile, "And I hear that band you're in is performing tonight."

"That's right," it was Peter's turn to smile, "In Sator Square."

"Band?" Windy inquired, peering at Peter closely, "Oh! Oh man, why didn't I see it before? I thought it was you! You're Peter, right?"

Peter was caught off-guard; he wasn't used to being recognized in connection with the band. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Only the week before, Davy's life had been threatened multiple times by trolls who hadn't liked the fact he'd sung "Gonna Build a Mountain". Not being the known face had its advantages.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," he said finally.

"Gosh, I love your music!" Windy exclaimed, "It's such a refreshing change. There are only so many times you can hear the Klatchian anthem and 'The Hedgehog Song' before they get really old."

"Too true," Peter laughed, "Which song's your favorite?"

"Oh man, don't make me choose!" Windy laughed, as well, "I think I'd have to say, at least right now, I love 'For Pete's Sake'. That'll probably change by, oh, say, tomorrow?"

"Well, maybe we'll see you at the gig?" Peter suggested.

"Definitely!" Windy nodded, "And thank you."

"No problem," Peter smiled to himself as the girl walked away. It occurred to him that Vimes would probably want to know why Peter hadn't brought her back to the Watch House, but what did that matter? She'd given the information, and wasn't that what Vimes wanted? Oh well. Peter became aware that Carrot was looking down at him, smiling slightly.

"No, I don't like her," Peter said before the question could be asked.

"She seemed to like you, though," Carrot pointed out.

"Only because she suddenly knew who I was," Peter countered.

Carrot nodded. "Perhaps, but I would think it had at least something to do with you helping her."

"Funny thing about helping," Peter mused, "Is that so few people appreciate it."

"She did, though," Carrot persisted.

Peter stopped and looked up at Carrot's face. The two had unconsciously started proceeding along Peach Pie Street as they talked, and now Peter saw in the captain's face only open honesty, and possibly the hint of a smile.

"Captain, am I right in assuming that you're trying to encourage me to go after this girl?" he asked finally.

Carrot laughed. "No, not really. But it could happen."

Peter thought about this. Ankh-Morpork wasn't really a place to meet girls, except possibly seamstresses, and Peter had no interest in that. But someone like Windy…of course, what kind of impression did he have of her? She was frightened of Thieves and Assassins, and she liked the band. Perhaps that was it: she had an appreciation for music. Mike would like that. Peter knew that, although he was usually wrapped up in "his" music, Mike secretly wanted people to like what he did. Peter, for one, didn't blame him. After all, Peter himself had joined the band to make music, to really have a place to create and people to create with. He would never forget the day he had been patrolling behind the Drum and heard the faint strains of Mike practicing his guitar floating out into the street. He'd looked in the back door and seen Mike sitting on a stool at the bottom on the basement stairs, concentrating intently on his current song. Ignoring the fact that he probably should remain on patrol, Peter had gone in and stood in the corner quietly until Mike had finished.

There had been an awkward silence when Mike looked up. He seemed both surprised and slightly put off at the fact he'd acquired an audience, but that had passed when Peter said,

"Nice. What's it called?"

"It's 'Don't Call On Me'," Mike had replied, "I've been working on it for a while, but I just can't seem to get it to sound right."

"I've had songs like that," Peter told him absently. Looking back now, Peter realized that this was probably the statement that had gotten him into the band. Mike's eyebrows had gone up and his voice had taken on an immediate tone of interest.

"You write songs?" he had asked, "What for? I mean, what do you play?"

"Guitar, mostly," Peter had found himself saying, "Some bass, a bit of piano, and some banjo here and there. I just go with what sounds right."

"I could use some of that," Mike had said with a grin, "I've been looking to start a band."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So, what do you say? You up for it?"

Peter had mirrored Mike's grin. "Why not? I'm Peter, by the way."

"Mike," Mike had shaken Peter's hand and invited him to sit down. The rest, really, was history. Peter and Mike had started practicing together, and then there had been the day when Micky showed up. Then they'd taken Davy on. It hadn't taken all that long, really. Now that they were a quartet, it seemed hard to think that they'd ever been anything else.

Peter snapped out of the memory when he realized that he and Carrot were back at the Watch House. Around the table in the main room sat Corporal Nobbs, Sergeant Colon, and Corporal Littlebottom. They seemed to be absorbed in a game of Cripple Mr. Onion. Carrot sat down next to Cheery and Peter settled in a few seats away from Nobby. Colon was staring at his hand, frowning; Cheery seemed to be indifferent; and Nobby had the world's biggest grin. Peter suspected that he was cheating.

Cheery flipped a coin into the pile already on the table.

"All right," she said, "That's my bet for this hand. Anyone else in?"

Nobby pushed two coins and half a bottle of Bearhugger's into the pile.

"That's mine," he said, almost sniggering. Cheery and Colon looked at each other, apparently debating on whether to show their hands or to quit while they were ahead. Carrot saw this, reached over without looking, and picked Nobby's arm up by the sleeve. Peter caught on and grabbed the other sleeve. All total, Nobby's sleeves turned out to be holding three aces, two kings, a queen, and a rusty key.

"I knew it!" Cheery exclaimed, throwing her cards down, "I _knew _you were cheating, Nobby! You get us to bet everything but our chain mail and then hold cards!"

Nobby looked down at the table, but was still grinning. Colon gave him a disappointed glance, but then tossed his cards onto the table noncommittally and got up, muttering to himself. Nobby left the room, his grin shrinking slightly, but that was probably only because he didn't get to keep any of the betting money.

"What's the key for?" Carrot asked, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He seemed amused.

"Let me see," Peter took the key and looked at it for moment, "The armory."

"How do you know that?" Carrot wanted to know.

"Because Commander Vimes lost it last week, and Nobby's about the only person I can think of who would take a particular interest in it," Peter replied.

"That and anything else that ain't nailed down," Colon put in.

Peter laughed. "That, too."

The door opened and Vimes blew in, all leather cape, worn boots, mud, and anger.

"Damn!" he shouted, hanging his cape up and sitting down at the table across from Carrot and Peter, "I hate cases like this! Fireworks! Why couldn't they stick to something normal? Now I'll have to go see Vetinari."

"Small price to pay, sir," Carrot pointed out in what Peter thought of as a "hopefully helpful" tone. That was a tone that said the speaking party was trying to be helpful while, at the same time, hoping that the receiving party wouldn't take his head off.

Vimes snorted cynically and pulled out a thin, slightly damp cigar. "Hardly. Facing Vetinari is like facing some sort of bureaucratic brick wall that grins at you. And can be ironic. Anybody got a light?"

Peter fished around in his pocket and brought out a rather tarnished lighter.

"Ah, thank you corporal," Vimes inhaled deeply and leaned back, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling, "You know what the worst thing is? There's nothing I can tell him except what the witnesses say, and there weren't many of them that are reliable. Ha, reliable, like you can get _that _in a city like Ankh-Morpork! All I know is that there were a few buggers that had a crate of fireworks for some reason, and now that all three of them are so extremely _dead_, there's nothing more anyone can do about it. But then you've got someone like Vetinari who'll want to hear all about it. I think he actually enjoys things like this. It's street theatre to him."

"But he does run the city well, sir," Carrot couldn't help pointing out. Both Vimes and Peter gave him disgusted looks. Peter didn't personally like the running of Ankh-Morpork any more than Vimes did, and he'd had enough encounters with the Patrician to severely dislike him, as well.

"The Guilds run the city, lad," Vimes said after a minute, "Vetinari just watches, the bastard."

Colon and Cheery had edged out of the room early on in the conversation, and in the ensuing emptiness Peter suddenly realized that he and Vimes had more in common than he would like to admit. The funny thing was that, while the watchmen admired Vimes, none of them actually, when it came down to it, wanted to be like Vimes.

"The problem with a case like this," Vimes continued, breaking the silence, "Is that there isn't really any evidence, any motive, any anything. There're too many questions, too many blank spaces, too many…"

"Shades of gray?" Peter volunteered.

Vimes snapped his fingers. "That's it! That's it exactly. By the way, what were you able to find out from that girl, corporal?"

As Peter relayed what Windy had told him, he thought about whether or not he should bring up the whole matter of being promoted. In the end, he decided to let it lie for a while. Vimes didn't seem to be in the mood to discuss ranking, especially since he had a case _and _the prospect of facing the Patrician weighing on his mind.

"Wait a minute, what time is it?" Peter asked suddenly. Vimes produced a watch from somewhere in the recesses of his uniform and glanced at it.

"Half past six, why?"

"Shit!" Peter exclaimed, standing up so fast that his chair fell over, "I've got to be in Sator Square in an hour! Geez, how does time get away from me like this?"

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Vimes and Carrot looking at each other in mild bewilderment. Time didn't often mean much to watchmen, but now Peter was hurrying down the corridor. When he got to his room, he began rooting around frantically for a suitable performing outfit. He probably owned more civilian clothes than any other watchman, except possibly Vimes, but the difference between the two was that Peter actually preferred a shirt and trousers to chain mail and armor. Sure, being a watchman was rewarding in some ways, but there was just something about the feeling of being officially off-duty that so few watchmen got to experience. Peter considered himself extremely lucky in that sense. Soon, he had discarded his breastplate and sword belt and was in the process of pulling off his mail shirt when there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" he called.

"Pete, man, it's Micky," came the reply, "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Micky pushed the door open, looking happy but hurried. He had a pair of pants slung over his shoulder. "Got a shirt I could borrow?"

"Depends on what you're going for," Peter replied, gesturing towards his clothes chest, "Take a look."

Micky began rooting through Peter's clothes in an attempt to find something less flashy than his wizard's robe.

"Peter, half of this can't possibly be yours," he said after a minute, "I mean, look at this shirt. It wouldn't fit a dwarf, let alone you."

Peter looked at the ratty shirt Micky was holding at arm's length.

"Oh, I swiped that and about four others from Nobby so he'd stop wearing them," he explained, "He has no concept of dirty. You should see his last five rooms."

Micky chuckled. "That's really nasty. Now let's see…" he bent over the trunk again and continued to dig around, "Ah, this one's good. Thanks, man."

"No problem. You'd better just use the room down the hall; we don't have much time," Peter gestured vaguely to the left. Micky headed out and Peter threw on his own outfit, then assembled his various musical instruments. They hadn't planned any particular lineup for that night, so he figured he should bring everything, just to be on the safe side.

Micky came back a minute later, his wizard's robe over his arm and his hat in his hands.

"I've got to run back to the University," he said, "I'll see you at the gig."

"Right," Peter nodded, picking up his guitar and his banjo and following Micky down the stairs. Carrot and Vimes were still sitting at the table. They had been joined by Angua and appeared to have taken up the earlier game of Cripple Mr. Onion, only they didn't seem to be betting.

Peter set his instrument cases down by the door. "Er, Carrot?"

Carrot looked up. "Yes?"

"I've got about five things I need to carry to Sator Square. Do you think you could give me a little help?"

Carrot glanced toward Vimes, who nodded slightly.

"All right," Carrot agreed, putting his cards down and standing up.

"I've got to get the rest down," Peter said to him, "Then I've really got to get going."

Carrot nodded and Peter hurried up the stairs. Ten minutes later, the two were heading in the direction of Sator Square, somehow carrying all of Peter's instruments.

"Do you really think that Lord Vetinari does such a bad job running the city?" Carrot asked suddenly. Peter was taken by surprise and had to think for a minute before answering.

"I'm probably not as hard on him as Vimes is," he said finally, "But I don't know…I just don't like him. Of course, I don't like the whole Guild thing either. It's just a big moneymaking machine. The Thieves' Guild has their premiums, the Assassins get paid to kill people, the Beggars always want something or other, and of course there's the Seamstresses…it's a mess, really. I'm surprised anyone would allow it."

"Imagine the city without it," Carrot replied.

Peter had to admit that the captain had a point. "Still…things could be different."

"That is often the case," said Carrot, and again Peter had to admit that he had a point.

"Speaking of case, do you think Vimes'll make out all right when he talks to Vetinari? I mean, he did kind of single-handedly ruin any and all chance of finding out exactly what happened."

"I think it's small enough that it can just blow over," Carrot replied, "There are plenty of things that happen in the city that are bigger and more dangerous than a box of fireworks."

Peter laughed. "You've got that right."


	5. Chapter 5 - The Gig (In Which a Star is ...

It was barely seven thirty. A small crowd was already gathered in Sator Square, and among them strolled the city's infallible entrepreneur, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. Dibbler knew the first rule of business: if there could be a sale, you should be there with merchandise in hand.

"Sausages! Hot sausages! Inna bun! Mustard! Getchore hot sausages inna bun with mustard, right here! How about you, madam? Can I interest you in a sausage?"

The young woman gave Dibbler a look of distaste, then gave his sausages a look that would make even the most enterprising animal part consider a career change. Dibbler recognized the look and piloted his cart away as quickly as decency would allow.

"How about you, sir? Sausage inna bun? Mustard?"

"You gotta wait 'til I'm more drunk'en this to get me to eat one'na them!" the man replied, waving a half-empty whisky bottle under Dibbler's nose and tottering away. Dibbler sighed. He was going to have to wait for the big crowd.

"All right, thank you…why don't you stay for the performance, Captain?"

Or maybe not…

Backstage, things were a mess. Mike was sitting on an upturned crate and tuning his guitar, Peter was testing his various instruments, and Davy was pacing nervously. Micky was nowhere to be found.

"Good gods, look at that crowd," Davy murmured, twitching the curtain aside, "We've barely been here ten minutes."

Peter peeked around the curtain and blew out a breath. "They're certainly coming fast."

"Micky better get here soon before people start gettin' impatient," Mike said, "You know what the people in this city are like when they get impatient."

As if on cue, Micky entered at that point, red in the face. He was huffing and puffing as he dragged something in behind him. He stopped halfway between Davy and Mike and leaned against the thing he had been dragging, trying to catch his breath. The thing was roughly rectangular and had a crude keyboard with a few upright panels in front of it. Various dials and switches occupied the panels. Peter, Mike, and Davy stared.

"What _is_ that thing, man?" Mike managed at last.

"Dunno," Micky replied, grinning, "I found it in the basement of the University. Oh good, you got a drum set." He wandered over to the corner where the drums had been set up. It was probably best not to ask where or how the set had been obtained. The fact that it was there was good enough.

"But…what does it do?" Peter asked, poking a few of the dials. Mike caught his wrist.

"Don't touch that! If it was in the University, then who knows what might happen? It could open up a…a tunnel to the Dungeon Dimensions for all we know!"

"Oh, I don't think so," said Micky from the corner, "The Librarian plays around with it sometimes when the organ's being repaired. So far we haven't had any nightmarish creatures in the basement, unless you count the time that –"

"Look, why'd you bring it?" Mike demanded. He was starting to feel the pressure from the crowd that was gathering even though there was a curtain between the crowd and the band. That was the problem: it was only a curtain.

"I thought it might lend a new sound to some of our songs," Micky came away from the drums and sat down in front of the strange machine. He pulled a couple levers and turned a few dials, then pressed a key.

When the wail had died away, Mike took his hands away from his ears and looked at the grinning faces of his band mates.

"Definitely," Peter said. Davy nodded in agreement.

"Groovy. What song?" Micky asked, turning a few more dials and experimentally punching keys.

"How 'bout 'Daily Nightly'?" Mike suggested, peering out at the audience again.

"Works for me," Micky shrugged and got up, producing his drumsticks.

"Hey Mick," Davy said, "What were you doing in the basement, anyway?"

"Oh, I was looking for clothes," Micky replied matter-of-factly, playing a short riff to warm up. Then he leaned back and started rolling a cigarette.

"Aw, Micky, don't do that right before a gig," Mike complained.

"Sorry Mike, but I'm nervous. And you know wizards smoke," Micky said accusingly.

"I doubt any of them smoke what you smoke. Holy Io, who's that?" Mike exclaimed suddenly, pointing to an indistinct figure sitting in a chair at the front of the growing crowd. It appeared to be ooking and throwing peanuts. Peter and Davy both looked out and shrugged. Micky got up and looked over the top of Davy's head.

"Oh, that's the Librarian. And look at that, half the University staff!"

"Where?" Peter asked.

"Right there," Micky pointed to the row behind the Librarian, "See, there's the Dean, and the Chair of Indefinite Studies, and Ponder Stibbons is more of a student, and the Bursar's the one with the vague look."

"And that dopey grin?" Mike inquired.

"That's the one."

"Good grief."

"Good evening, boys!" The sudden greeting caused all four band members to turn. Standing in the shadow of Micky's University contraption was a small man with a big grin.

"Oh, Mr. Dibbler," Mike said, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, "Hello."

"Boys, boys, boys, I saw this crowd and you know what I thought?" Dibbler swept forward and reached up to put an arm around Mike's shoulders, "I thought, 'This crowd could be a whole lot bigger!' And then I thought, who better to help with that than me?"

"Oh, I don't know, a rampaging troll?" Mike remarked, shrugging the arm off. Dibbler ignored him.

"And I thought, I could give you boys the opportunity of a lifetime! You could hit it big, real big, not just in Ankh-Morpork, but in Quirm, in Pseudopolis, in Klatch! So I'm here to offer you my services at a mere fraction of your earnings, and I'm telling you, you won't regret it!"

Mike sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "Look, Throat, we've discussed this. We don't need a manager, and if we did, it wouldn't be you. Now if you'll excuse us, we've got a show to do."

Dibbler bristled. If there was one thing he hated, it was people who didn't recognize his business opportunities, or people who saw right through them. "You'll regret this!" he exclaimed.

"Actually," said Peter, turning the tables and draping a friendly arm across Dibbler's shoulders, "We won't. Come here, Mr. Dibbler, just stand right there, that's it, look out at the audience. Do you see that troll back there?"

"Yes…" Dibbler answered slowly.

"Good, and how about the guy standing next to him?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Now you see, Mr. Dibbler, that's Sergeant Detritus and Captain Carrot. Watch members. And you may be forgetting that I'm also a Watch member," Peter smiled, "Carrot has got muscles like rocks and Detritus is _made _of rock. So, basically what I'm saying is you really ought to listen to Mike and get back to selling your sausages."

Dibbler mouthed wordlessly for a moment, then turned and tried to appeal to Davy.

"David! May I call you David?" he said companionably, attempting to steer Davy over to the corner.

"Why not? Everyone else does," Davy muttered through clenched teeth.

"David, can't you see where I'm coming from? I'm a hard-working man myself, and I understand the need to bring in…_extra revenue_. Do you follow me? So why not tell your misguided friends here how much you need my services, and…"

There was a sudden grunt, then a yell. The next thing Dibbler saw was the inside of his sausage cart, reason being that he'd landed in it headfirst.

Mike dusted his hands off and looked at the wreckage appreciatively. Micky was laughing and Davy was grinning. Peter also seemed mildly amused, but he was looking out at the crowd again and frowning.

"This is probably the strangest audience I've ever seen," he remarked when the others had stopped having their laugh over Dibbler, "I mean, look at that. There's a whole row of pointy hats, even more than there were before, and then there's half a row of Watchmen, and that looks like…the _Patrician_?"

"No way, man, that's impossible," Mike looked out, as well. Soon, all four were crowded around the small gap between the curtains, staring out at the assembled audience and gaping.

"I didn't think he'd actually _come_," Davy whispered, sounding uneasy.

"Look at that! The Archchancellor is here, that hypocrite!" Micky exclaimed, pointing emphatically and nearly putting Mike's eye out.

"Ow," Mike said, moving Micky's arm a few inches to the left, "Well, at least there aren't any Assassins. I think I'd really be in trouble then."

"We'd better tune and warm up pretty quick," Peter suggested, "I don't think these guys can wait until eight."

Mike nodded in agreement, and the band started the unnerving process of setting everything up with the thought that everything might not make it through the performance intact. The plus was that they weren't performing in a tavern that night, so there wouldn't be much of anything for the people (and dwarfs, and trolls) to get drunk on. And it would take Dibbler a little while to reconstruct his sausage-inna-bun business, so that wouldn't be a problem.

"All right, ready for the curtain to open?" Mike asked about ten minutes later.

"Ready," Peter, Micky, and Davy chorused.

"Ladies and gentlemen, trolls and dwarfs," a squeaky voice announced, "Presenting Ankh-Morpork's own, the one, the only, _the Monkees_!"

"Wait man, who's that announcing us?" Davy inquired.

"Oh, an over-eager dwarf was pestering me when I was dragging that keyboard thing in," Micky replied, "I figured he'd leave me alone if I paid him to do the announcing."

Davy raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, but didn't say anything. Just then the curtain opened, and the Monkees launched into their opening song.

Things went well. Very well, by Ankh-Morpork standards. Nobody threw anything, and Micky was beginning to get into the rhythm of the performance when he happened to look out at the audience again. At first he couldn't believe what he was seeing, but it soon became apparent that his eyes were not deceiving him. And when that happened, he nearly had a heart attack. Fortunately he had taken a break from the drums to play the keyboard device or he would have knocked the entire set over.

Standing at the back of the crowd was a tall figure in a black cowl. When the figure saw Micky looking in its direction, it threw back its hood and revealed the grinning skull of Death. As Micky watched, one of the blue lights in Death's eyes flared. Was Death…winking at him?

Micky shook his head. He couldn't believe that Death, _Death_, the Grim Reaper for gods' sake, had showed up at the gig. He'd invite the Librarian, he'd invite the wizards, but there was no way Micky would have consciously and voluntarily handed an invitation to Death.

The song, "Daily Nightly", was ending. Suddenly, something dawned on Micky and a cold feeling moved down his spine. He stared at the keyboard device almost as if he hadn't realized he was sitting behind it. He watched his fingers strike the final notes, then, as if moving in a dream, threw himself sideways just as the thing exploded. The crowd cheered, and the Librarian clapped especially loud. He had never really liked that thing. It didn't measured up to the character of the University organ.

The rest of the performance was uneventful compared to that. There was one point when Peter struck a chord that made dogs howl, and Davy nearly got flattened by offended trolls when he, once again, attempted sing "Gonna Build a Mountain." In the end, however, the gig was a success. People were on their feet clapping instead of throwing things, and the Monkees ended up backstage at the end, breathless and laughing.

"Woo! I don't know when I've ever had so much fun!" Mike exclaimed, putting his guitar down and sprawling on a crate.

"That was most definitely one of our best gigs," Micky laughed, spinning on the stool behind the drums.

"We did perform well," Peter agreed, his grin wide enough to admit a piece of watermelon.

"Vetinari was smiling. Did you see him? _Smiling_!" Davy kept saying.

The four couldn't stop talking about the success of their performance and were startled by the sudden entrance of the Patrician. Davy jumped up.

"Er, hello your lordship," he said awkwardly. Vetinari was smiling a genuine smile.

"I must commend you, all of you, on your performance," he said, "It was certainly one of the most exciting and non-threatening events that the city has seen in a long time."

Mike grinned. "Thank you, sir."

"You must keep me informed of future performances," Vetinari continued, "I wouldn't mind attending more."

"That would be no problem, your lordship," Davy replied, "We could even print up a schedule in the _Times_ under 'Events'." Peter and Micky started nodding at the mention of this idea.

"It was a good performance. Keep it up." With that, Vetinari left, nearly colliding with a young girl who was followed by a tall, indistinct figure.

"Windy!" Peter exclaimed, "Hi!"

The girl smiled. "Hi, Peter. That was an amazing performance!"

Mike looked from Peter to Windy and back again a few times. "Pete, you…how…why are there suddenly people coming backstage to talk to us?"

"Oh Mike, haven't you heard the legends?" Davy inquired with a chuckle, "It's called having fans. It's when people actually like you instead of throwing their dinner at your head."

"I know, man, I know. We just…usually keep the fans out there."

"The 'fans' also usually have axes," Davy pointed out, causing Mike to laugh. Peter was talking to Windy about the performance and the different songs. Micky was staring at the indistinct figure, his eyes wide. He blinked a few times, walked over to the figure, and whispered,

"I didn't think you were supposed to save people."

SAVE? Death questioned with a slight grin, although it should be pointed out that he didn't have much choice in that matter.

"Yeah, save," Micky snapped, "I never would have jumped clear of that thing if you hadn't winked at me." 

I DID NOT SAVE YOU, Death explained, I DON'T SAVE PEOPLE IN THE SAME WAY I DON'T KILL PEOPLE. I SIMPLY KNEW IT WASN'T YOUR TIME TO GO. IT WOULDN'T HAVE MATTERED EITHER WAY.

Micky looked confused for a moment, then realization dawned and he nodded.

"Ah, the old 'have fun' trick."

THAT'S THE ONE.

"In that case," said Micky, "I have only one request."

AND WHAT IS THAT?

"_Don't ever do that to me again_!!"

After another wave of fans that consisted of two star-struck dwarfs and several wizards, the four Monkees were able to sit back and have a few moments to themselves before packing up and going home.

"So Pete," Micky said slyly, having recovered from his encounter with Death, "What's up with you and that girl?"

"Well, you know," Peter shifted position, trying to hide his grin, "You help rescue somebody and one thing just leads to another…"

"So you asked her out, then?" Davy inquired.

"Er, she asked me out, actually…" Peter admitted, looking a bit sheepish, but happy. Davy laughed.

"And old Dibbler stayed out of our hair," Mike remarked with a smirk.

"Although, if you notice, he managed to get his business back together in time to sell sausages by the encore," Micky pointed out.

Mike shrugged. "Hey, he can sell his sausages to anyone he likes just so long as he don't bother us."

There was a moment of silence in which each one of the four had his own thoughts. Davy was already starting to write a story about the gig in his head, Micky was wondering if he could somehow get in on Ponder Stibbons's Hex project, Mike was thinking about what kind of job he could go after now that he was no longer an Assassin, and Peter was anticipating his date with Windy. There was a group sigh.

"You know," said Davy after a minute, "This really is the life."

Mike put his feet up on a vacant crate. "It is," he agreed.

"Where would we be without this band?" Micky wondered.

"Dead," Mike replied.

"Bored," Davy added.

"On Night Watch patrol with Corporal Nobbs," Peter put in, making a face. The others laughed.

"Yeah, I'm glad we do this kind of thing," Micky said happily.

"Me too. Hey guys," Peter said suddenly, sitting up, "Promise me something."

"What's that?" asked Davy.

"Promise…promise that we'll keep this up, keep performing, keep being friends, you know? Because we've all got pretty weird lives, and I don't think we could make it without this band."

"I'll drink to that," Mike affirmed, putting out a hand palm-down. The others put their hands on top of it in an age-old sign of camaraderie.

"Friends," Peter stated.

"Forever," Davy amended.

"And the band, too," Micky said.

"Can't forget the band," Mike grinned.

And somewhere out in space, where words spoken on any given world disperse and disappear, these four statements floated, past the giant mountain of ice at the Discworld's Hub, past the small glowing sun, past the eyes of Great A'Tuin the world turtle, and out among the stars. Usually, it would end there. But for these statements, there's more. Instead of drifting apart, they came together, and where they united a tiny, nearly insignificant little star formed. But, if you've ever looked up at the night sky and seen the galaxies spinning away around you, you know that no star is insignificant. This one glowed blue and sparked around the edges.

"Did you feel that, just then?" Micky asked.

"Feel what?" Davy said.

"Never mind," Micky replied, looking up at the sky.

THE END


End file.
